


Escape to Oakstone

by dontbefancy



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-16
Updated: 2014-10-16
Packaged: 2018-02-21 08:51:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2462201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dontbefancy/pseuds/dontbefancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kurt needs a break. Blaine needs to find one good reason he's filling in at his parents' country inn. Both things happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Escape to Oakstone

**Author's Note:**

> It's an autumn story, so I waited until autumn to post even though it was written, quite possibly, as far back as the spring. Yes, it's my tagline fic for Interlude Press.
> 
> But really, it's a meet cute fic. Because while I know some are winded of them all, these two really would settle in together in just about any circumstance.

Kurt Hummel needed to get out of the city.

He finally had a moment to breathe after fashion week, a quiet lull between the chaotic swirl of life preceding it and the slowly ratcheting urgency of the life that would follow. From build up to climax, the respite after the chaos was typically blissful and blessed.

But this year felt less blissful and more bleak. The chilled dankness of the subway stations permeated every layer of clothing he wore. The stench of human… humanness churned around him on the streets and down below and clung to his skin long after his nightly shower.

He had spent the last five years designing gowns for the infamous Monique Durant. Gowns that had ended up on red carpets and in weddings for the New York elite. Gowns that only days ago received accolades and praise and hopefully hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of orders to carry Ms. Durant well into her retirement.

But, if Kurt had to sweep his stylus across his tablet to trace the shape of one more mermaid skirt for the newest shapely starlet, one more Grecian gown for the most visible aging Hollywood legend, one more sheath for the latest pop princess's image-improvement campaign, he thought he might just go mad.

_"Who are you wearing, darling?"_

_"Oh, this is a Durant!" Spin, twist, glance over the shoulder, bat eyelashes. "Isn't it divine?"_

And Kurt would sit at home watching on television and _seethe_. "It's a HUMMEL, you ungrateful _cow_..."

But no one who could make a difference would hear. His friends would pat him on the arm and hand him another drink.

It was a cycle that spun so quickly, he feared he would never find a way out. If he so much as tried to jump from the spinning machine, he'd splice himself to bits like a sack of potatoes off to be chipped, fried and salted.

But, on a brilliant late September afternoon, fed up with the cycle, with the tension, with the inability to just _relax_ already, he took audacity, chance and the infinite resources of the internet in hand and went on a hunt for a simple one night respite north.

 _Maybe upstate. Or Vermont. Or, I bet New Hampshire will be less in demand_.

He was "building castles in the sky," as his mother used to say, trying to book something during the peak of fall colors, but his little boy fancies never completely left him. Castles in the sky sounded so brilliant and other-worldly that they must be built somewhere. Why not in the hopes of one vacant room in early autumn in New England?

And right as he was about to settle and take that cabin in the woods with a god-forsaken hot tub on the front porch, and cedar wood paneled _everything,_ he found it. Greenwich, Connecticut. The little bed and breakfast was hardly a castle, and from all appearances, it was firmly grounded on earth, but it looked homey. Comfortable.

And most importantly, it was far from Monique's line of vision, far from her bolts of floral chiffon, inset bras and invisible zippers.

With a few clicks of his mouse and one purchased train ride north, Kurt Hummel was getting out of the city.

**~~~**~~~**

Blaine Anderson was not pleased.

The road to this particular emotional state started years before when his mother got the preposterous notion of buying a bed and breakfast. No common sense statistics from his father would sway her. No threats that she would be on her own and that he—and most definitely his brother—would not be helping in any way, shape or form would dissuade her.

The condition of the house she found in Greenwich, Connecticut didn't deter her. The cost of refurbishing it didn't derail her perfectly envisioned plans of living out retirement by running a "charming little bed and breakfast. Won't it be simply _grand_ , Edward?"

Edward grunted. Blaine dove into his more-than-contented life teaching piano and voice lessons to New York City's wealthiest children. He had made a call to his brother telling him to ignore phone calls from their mother for at least six months—that she'd lost her ever-loving mind and the fewer Andersons sucked into her insanity, the better.

It didn't work. Because this day, this perfectly beautiful day in October, instead of strolling through Central Park, or sitting on his small terrace writing lovely little ditties for his ungrateful _darling_ students, or sipping coffee at his favorite shop on West 14th while watching the world pass him by, he was slopping water out of the kitchen of Mother's charming little bed and breakfast.

While she sunbathed in Barbados.

After running the place for three solid years, Mom decided she needed a break from all of that _work_. Blaine was ~~passive-aggressively convinced~~ recruited to cover for her for the weekend. The dishwasher was known to overflow on a whim, and this day was apparently "whim day" because it had done so again that morning after breakfast.

In actuality, whether Mom needed a break or not, the inn was faltering. Just as Edward had predicted, repairs constantly outnumbered guests. In what was supposed to be the busiest season of the year, there was at least one vacant room every night. But there was to be a new guest checking in today, not even a regular.

And a new guest could lead to a repeat guest.

And a repeat guest just might buy him some peace with his mother.

So, he mopped and kept his grumbling to himself, putting on the best little innkeeper face he could muster.

Just as he finished, the doorbell chimed alerting him of his new guest. He propped the mop against the back doorframe and switched out his mucky clogs for topsiders. Drying off his hands, he stepped into the living room.

"Good afternoon! Welcome to Oakstone Inn."

The gentleman's back was turned and he tugged a rollaway suitcase that seemed to have lost a wheel. Blaine scurried out from behind the desk to assist just as the man hiked his ailing bag up and over the threshold.

"Hi." The man turned to Blaine and sighed with an exhausted huff. "Kurt Hummel. Reservation for one. And please tell me you have fresh brewed coffee because—"

Blaine dropped the ratty towel he'd been drying his hands with onto Mr. Hummel's suitcase. When Mr. Hummel's gaze followed the dropped towel, Blaine snatched it back up and blushed.

Mr. Hummel was simply gorgeous. But for a lock of hair drooping on his forehead that had clearly been properly upswept when his day began, he was model-perfect, styled, suited, coated, and accessorized for the front of any fashion magazine.

"Coffee. Yes. We do. Have some. Fresh. Ish." He grimaced at the truth of the "ish" portion of "fresh" and absently grabbed at the suitcase handle and hobbled it to the desk. "Um, I put another pot on about an hour ago? Is that—can I help you with your—"

"You already are?"

Blaine stopped walking and turned back around, daring himself to look into Mr. Hummel's blue eyes—the most interesting mix of blue and gray and green he'd ever seen. "Yes. I suppose I am."

Mr. Hummel was smirking. Mocking? Almost laughing?

He propped the suitcase by the desk and offered a nervous smile before finding Mr. Hummel's paperwork. "Would you like to take your coffee to your room, or shall I deliver it? Maybe with a scone leftover from breakfast?"

Mr. Hummel looked around the reception area with a pleased sigh, as if a tacky, ill-kempt bed and breakfast held the sanctuary he needed. "I can take it with me, if you'll help with my broken case?"

"It's a deal, Mr. Hummel."

"Kurt." He offered his hand to shake and Blaine took it with a grin, letting his eyes travel up to Kurt's as the softness of his hands overtook his own.

"Blaine. Anderson. I hope you enjoy your stay."

Blaine Anderson was pleased. Quite pleased indeed.

**~~~**~~~**

Kurt hated being that kind of guest.

Okay, that wasn't true. He typically _was_ that kind of guest because he typically stayed at luxury hotels on the corporate dollar and had come to expect certain things provided for him. But here, in this modest facility with a charmingly modest innkeeper, he hated being that kind of guest.

The kind of guest that called down and requested more towels and pillows. But really, he needed more towels and pillows because he planned on many baths—bringing his own favorite oils to assure as much—and, who in their right mind actually slept with fewer than three or four pillows at a time?

So, he became that kind of guest. And while picking up the phone's receiver, he convinced himself that it was completely about the towels and pillows and not about the charming innkeeper with the Brooks Brothers outfit and the million-watt smile and the eager brown eyes of a friendly woodland animal.

Not even remotely about any of that.

"Hi. Mr. Anderson. It's Kurt Hummel in the Maplehenge Suite. I hate to bother you, but—"

He stopped himself as he envisioned Mr. Anderson sitting at the desk. Maybe now that it was approaching dinner hour, he would have his dashing bow tie undone and draped around his neck. And maybe his cardigan would be unbuttoned—or better yet off—to show the muscled form he was clearly hiding beneath it. And _maybe_ he would be casually leaning back in his desk chair with his fabulous topsiders crossed and perched on the desk's edge. He was sure he would be rubbing his eyes, as weary and tired as Kurt had felt when he arrived.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Hummel? Are you still there?"

"Oh! Yes. I am. I was…" _Daydreaming you idiot, you were daydreaming._ "Distracted. You know, what? I'll just come on down and—"

"No, no. You're here to relax and I'm here to help you do that. What is it you need?"

Mr. Anderson must have had towels and pillows at the ready because he was knocking on Kurt's door before Kurt finished pouring himself a glass of wine.

When Kurt opened the door, he laughed. All he saw was a stack of pillows and towels, and peeking over the top, was a forehead with dark, perfectly sculpted wavy hair atop it—a pillow tower with a top hat of hair.

"You're in housekeeping too?" Kurt went to the dresser for his wallet and Blaine stepped inside and put the pillows on the foot of Kurt's bed and took the towels to the bathroom.

"Well, I suppose, yes. Housekeeping, bellhop, plumber, cook, clerk." As he came back into the bedroom, Kurt finished pouring his own glass of wine. "You brought your own? We—we have some lovely wines here."

"Oh, I'm sure you do." He corked the bottle and spun around with the filled glass delicately cradled in his hand. "Well. I didn't know. Actually. I just—I'm very particular." Kurt sighed, feeling like he'd let this lovely man down. "Would you like a glass?"

"No, thank you. I mean," Mr. Anderson smiled shyly and Kurt almost choked on the sip of wine he was taking. "Yes, I'd love one, but I have one couple still out tonight, so I should refrain. Thank you."

"I understand." Kurt pulled out a few bills and handed them to Mr. Anderson who waved his hand in refusal. "Mr. Anderson… " When he tried to scold, he instead noticed Mr. Anderson's bow tie. Just as he'd envisioned, it dangled untied around his neck and the top two buttons of his dress shirt were undone. His cardigan, however, remained in place as before. Kurt itched to unbutton it and—

"Tell you what. If you call me Blaine for the remainder of your stay, that will be tip enough."

"I'm sorry, what?" Blaine's hand was on the doorknob to leave and Kurt was still daydreaming, barely catching whatever it was Blaine had just said. "Oh, yes. Blaine, then. I won’t bother you anymore this evening."

"You're no bother Mr. Hum—" Kurt's eyebrow lifted and Blaine chuckled. "Kurt. Call me for anything."

"Okay, thank you. Blaine."

Blaine left, tossing one more high-wattage smile over his shoulder before closing the door behind him.

Kurt was most definitely that kind of guest.

**~~~**~~~**

Blaine's mother would kill him if she found out.

All the guests were securely tucked into their rooms for the night, and Blaine was finally able to put up his feet and relax. And while relaxing, he considered "accidentally" unplugging the modem so he might increase his chances of getting another phone call from the Maplehenge Suite.

Of course, with his luck, he'd get the call from the Cedar Ridge Suite and have to deal with that pompous windbag and his weekend play thing. Mr. Maplehenge Suite, _Kurt, Kurt, Kurt Hummel, please call me Kurt,_ was most likely luxuriating naked in the bathtub with the scented oils he saw perched on the side of the tub when he'd delivered the extra towels—

The phone rang so abruptly, he knocked his coffee off of his desk as he removed his feet from their very unprofessional propping.

"Hell—hello. Front desk." _Please don't be Mother._

"Hi. It's Kurt. Again. I'm tremendously sorry, but I seem to be having difficulty connecting to your wireless network."

Blaine looked at the back of the modem to make sure he hadn't willed it into being. He had not.

"Okay. I'm sure you already have done this, but you followed the directions provided on your room desk?"

"Yes. But it's simply not finding your network. I’m so sorry. It's late, and I'm sure you have an early morning and—"

"No, no. It's fine. Let me look around on this end and then I'll be up."

He arrived at Kurt's door fifteen minutes later.

"You brought cookies? As if you can ply me with baked goods?" Kurt's smile was flirtatious and Blaine had to consciously tell himself to take a step inside his room.

Kurt _had_ bathed. The room smelled of lavender and sandalwood and Kurt's hair was un-styled and damp at the nape of his neck. He wore low slung pajama pants and a snug but soft Henley t-shirt, opened loosely at the top, exposing just enough skin to make Blaine's fingers flex with want to touch.

"I—yes. No one came to afternoon tea—no one ever does, but Mother insists." He was sure his smile looked more like he was suffering from gas pains, but he sat the plate of white chocolate cranberry cookies on the dresser. "I should have brought up some milk."

Kurt lifted his wine glass and smiled. "Grown up milk." He sat down at the desk and showed Blaine what he'd been doing, and as he spoke, Blaine glanced down at the laminated directions left on each room's desk.

"Sounds like the problem might be—" Blaine looked at the paper more closely and sighed. This was exactly the sort of thing that worried Blaine about his mother's ability to run such a facility in the first place. "We've updated our services and these directions no longer apply. I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Humm—"

"Blaine…"

"Kurt. I'm—" Blaine exchanged the directions for the plate of cookies and offered them with a smile. "Cranberries. In anticipation of Thanksgiving."

Kurt took two cookies and handed one to Blaine, who really _really_ wanted to protest but how was he supposed to do that when—

"I won't eat them alone."

Blaine took the offered cookie.

Kurt took a bite with a smile and went back to his computer. "So, would you like to walk me through—oh. These are divine. Now I know what to be thankful for."

"I know this is Tech 101, but just try rebooting your machine and treat it like you would your home network. All these hoops she has just complicates things."

So, Kurt did as instructed and Blaine ate his cookie, sitting on the edge of the bed when Kurt invited him with a nod of his head. After the familiar ring of the Macbook's welcoming chime, Kurt sat back and looked at him with a crooked grin.

"You lost your bow tie."

Blaine reached up to where it would be and looked down, remembering he'd also un-tucked his shirt. He probably looked like a five-year-old version of himself, dress shirt dangling out from under his cardigan, socks removed, bare feet quickly shoved into his topsiders. After crawling around on the floor to plug in the mini-fridge for the Sprucehill Suite, he probably had scuffed knees as well. "Sorry. End of the day and all."

Kurt chuckled and shook his head, tapping his finger impatiently on his touchpad as his machine finished booting up.

Blaine felt anxious simply sitting there, so he got up to see if he could do anything to fix the broken wheel on Kurt's suitcase and decided to bring up a couple of tools in the morning.

"Okay, it looks like I'm good. I know I shouldn't be working. I'm supposed to be here to relax, but I just—"

"Everyone relaxes their own way." Blaine turned to say his goodbyes and eyes landed on Kurt's computer screen. "Oh! Whose designs are those?"

He stepped in closer and bent to see a gallery of beautifully detailed sketches of menswear, surely from Paul Smith or John Vervatos or—

Kurt quickly closed the window and stood as a blush crept up his chest and neck. "They're mine." He traced his finger over the open neckline of his shirt. "Thank you for your help. Again."

"They were—" Blaine looked at the screen and back up to Kurt. "Those were amazing. I'd love to see more. If—" Kurt grabbed his glass of wine and looked at the door. "No, I'm sorry. You'd rather not. I'll—tomorrow, I'll bring up some tools if you'd like. I think I can fix your suitcase."

"Wait." Kurt bit at his bottom lip and glanced back to his computer screen. "You liked them?"

"What little I saw, yes. They looked comfortable and I love the cut of the pants."

Kurt's smile made Blaine grab for another cookie. Well, it _did_.

Kurt sat back down and pulled the laptop onto his lap. He scooted his chair to the bed and patted it for Blaine to sit. "Do you have a few more minutes?"

And when those few minutes turned into a couple of hours and the grown up milk gave way to the buzz of a good wine, well Blaine knew…

…his mother would most definitely kill him if she found out.

**~~~**~~~**

It hadn't been the escape Kurt was looking for.

But, as he sat in the dining room of Oakstone Inn and dabbed his fingers into the crumbs of the orange-cranberry scone from his breakfast, he felt more relaxed than he had in months.

Possibly in years.

He and Blaine had stayed up entirely too late talking about his designs. About designing. About clothes and fashion and movies and television, good wine and old music.

Kurt had been designing his own clothes since junior high school. He'd been designing clothes for women since college, but never once stopped dreaming of having his own line.

What he was missing all this time was an audience. And even though Blaine was just an audience of one, he listened. And suggested. And encouraged.

It wasn't that Blaine could do anything to further Kurt's dream of having his own line or could free him of Ms. Durant's lordship. It was that Blaine's excitement in his work gave him that extra boost of confidence he needed to step up and make it happen.

And even more, while he was sure nothing would come of it, it felt amazing to flirt and to be flirted with by someone who wasn't trying to climb over his rung on the fashion industry's corporate ladder.

By evening's end, the yoke of nervousness Blaine had been carrying around disappeared—as did the cardigan. As they talked and hummed a few bars of their favorite musical numbers, Blaine's eyes danced of amber and joy and his laughter bellowed ready and rich, warming Kurt to his core.

Blaine was a welcome breath of fresh air.

After Blaine offered his good nights, Kurt slept very little in the lumpy-but-plush bed, constantly reliving a touch, a smile, a snort of derision, a word of approval.

"Unless you're in a hurry, you're free to stay past check-out. I only have one couple coming today."

Kurt startled as Blaine came from the kitchen, still bright and cheerful even after making and serving breakfast to his guests.

"Thanks." Kurt added cream into the coffee Blaine refreshed, pouring a touch into Blaine's cup as well. "I wish I planned—"

"I wish you didn't—"

They'd stopped speaking as soon as they heard the other talk at the same time, hiding behind their coffee cups to gain sure footing again. Kurt smiled and put his cup down. "I wish I planned to stay another night."

"I've really enjoyed your company. I wish you didn't have to leave so soon."

Kurt looked out the window. The fall colors painted his view, splashes of brilliant oranges and reds and yellows reached into the cloudless blue sky.

Maybe a walk before he left would be nice. Maybe Blaine could leave the confines of the inn to go with him. "You have a lovely place here; it's a pity you don't have a full house. "

Blaine shook his head, breaking off a piece of Danish from the communal plate he'd brought over to their table. "It's not lovely. It's in desperate need of repair, of decent publicity and probably of a new owner."

Kurt looked around and had to concede to Blaine's modesty, if only a little. "And maybe some wallpaper remover."

Blaine chuckled and sat up. "Kurt, this isn't my place. I don't even work here."

"What?"

"This is my mom's dream. It's my dad's nightmare, and it's my embarrassment. Mother needed a break. I'm filling in for the weekend."

"The retreat needed a retreat?"

"Yes. And I'll mention the wallpaper to her."

"Oh my god, don’t you _dare_." Kurt laughed and considered for a moment. "Although, you could let her know the mattress in my suite was a little lumpy."

"I'll do that."

Kurt sat back and spun his cup in his saucer mentally pushing back when the city began to edge itself into his thoughts. "So, should I need another getaway, you won't even be here?"

"No. Unless Dad gets his way at the name change he's been plugging. Then I'm afraid it's ours for all eternity."

"What does he want to call it?"

"Edward's Den of Depravity and Breakfast."

Kurt snorted and the peculiar couple from the room down the hall finally pulled themselves from The Times and left. "Yeah, with a name like that, I might be here every weekend."

"Into depravity, are you?"

"No. Dens. Wood paneling."

"Atari."

"Avocado couches."

"Sports paraphernalia."

"You speak my language. Book me now, baby." Kurt continued to chuckle, but his mind was spinning. He needed this man's smile again. "So, what do you do, if it's not fixing suitcase wheels and baking scones?"

Blaine leaned in conspiratorially. "The scones and cookies are from the bakery in town." He put his fingers to his lips and winked. "But, I teach music."

"Here? In Greenwich?"

"No." Blaine grinned, as if finally allowed to tell a long-held secret. "Upper West Side."

"You surely don't commute from here…"

"Well, many do, but no. I'm in Chelsea...on Seventeenth."

Kurt's mouth dropped open. "I'm on Twenty-sec—"

"Twenty-second. I know. I have your registration."

New guests arrived and Blaine excused himself. Kurt sat for a few moments and slowly sipped at his coffee, unsure of what to do with this new bit of information.

Blaine knew they were neighbors and never once said, "Hey, we should meet for coffee. We probably cross paths all the time." Or, "I live 5 blocks away. I want to see you again." Or really anything.

As Kurt drained his coffee and looked around the perimeter of the modest but lovely property of the inn, he had no choice but to accept that it was simply a relaxing evening to file away in his memory. Nothing more, nothing less. He couldn't decide if he was irritated or just embarrassed that he'd taken such a fondness in such a short period of time.

He went back to his room and packed and made sure the notes he'd made the night before had indeed saved. He could feel the weight of the city, the scowl of his boss looming overhead already, threatening to darken the light he'd found here.

After one more check into the bathroom to make sure he'd gathered all of his belongings, he called a cab and made his way back to the registration desk to check-out.

As Kurt landed on the bottom stair and saw Blaine sitting at the desk flipping through his appointment book, he decided that building castles in the sky was probably best relegated to the fancies of little boys.

"Kurt! You're not leaving, are you?"

"Yeah, I need to head back." _Please, convince me to stay._

Blaine furrowed his brow, but focused on his computer to pull up Kurt's account. "Do you just want it all on the card you registered with?"

"Yes, please."

Blaine looked up briefly, a small smile and then back down again and held his hand over the printer feed to wait for Kurt's invoice. "Here we go. Just sign here and I really want to see you again."

Kurt lifted his gaze from the paper in front of him and met Blaine's pleading, patient, unmoving eyes.

"Oh thank god."

Maybe building castles in the sky was something one just never quite outgrew.

Kurt quickly signed his name, unsure if he was even spelling it correctly. "I want to see you too." He looked at his contact information on the form and pointed to it. "You—you have my, um. How can I contact you?"

Blaine's smile was back, bright as the sun. He reached into his back pocket for his phone, looked at Kurt's invoice and typed. "There."

Kurt's ass buzzed and he laughed. "Wait outside with me?"

When they got outside, they both grumbled seeing the cab idling in the drive. "Thank you, Blaine."

"It was all my pleasure."

Neither made a move to walk to the cab, but instead searched the cool air for some final brilliant salutation. Kurt looked around the property and Blaine worried at his bottom lip, his eyes alight, matching the saddle color of his field coat as if a designer had planned it. "Oh for god's sake."

Kurt let go of his suitcase and the metal handle hit the concrete porch with a ping. Before he could talk himself out of it, he cupped Blaine's jaw in his hand and pulled him in for a kiss, cold-lipped and dry, soft and perfect.

He felt Blaine smile against his lips and pulled back, just to catch his breath. "Why are you smiling?"

"Because you're kissing me." Blaine's hand was firm against the back of Kurt's neck, and he reached up for another kiss, a soft brush of their tongues. Breath puffed between them as they pulled back, grinning ridiculously. "And why are you smiling?"

"Because you're kissing me back."

With one more soft press of their lips, Kurt reluctantly stepped back and bent for his suitcase. "I'll call as soon as I know my schedule this week."

"No."

"No? Blaine?"

"Don't call me until you've made two contacts about those designs."

Kurt leaned in for one more kiss, brushing his nose against Blaine's, cold from the autumn air, like his own. "Give me three days."

"Take your time. I'll be waiting."

It hadn't been the escape Kurt was looking for.

But it was exactly the one he needed.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Announcing my upcoming book, Chef's Table, published through Interlude Press! Pre-sales are going on now at http://interludepress.com 
> 
> Release date December 2, 2014. Find me at http://lynncharles.net for all updates.


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